Will shook his head. “Funny, they didn’t seem interested in the prince at all. The sooner he fell into a bog or headed back to France the better, as far as they were concerned. No, what they asked most about was the gold.”
“The French gold?” Celia asked. “Good heavens.”
“Aye,” Will said. “It was never found, you know. Mal and I suspected it was stolen by the Highlanders who intercepted it, and they’ve now spent it on ostentatious things like food and clothing to keep them warm through the winter. But Lord Chesfield and your uncle are convinced the gold is still floating about the northern Highlands. They were so adamant, they’ve nearly convinced me as well.”
The end of Will’s nose twitched, as though he were anxious to dive overboard, swim ashore, race to Scotland, and start hunting for lost gold.
“And then I came along,” Alec broke in, “to put an end to your information gathering. And to save your life and that of twenty Scotsmen at the same time. I can see why you’re cursing me.”
Will’s grin flashed. “Truth to tell, I was bloody glad to see ye. Ye did a fine thing, Alec. And ye got yourself a wife in the bargain.” He looked Celia over, his pleased expression warring with one of curiosity. “We’ll be having a grand celebration when we’re back in the bosom of the family, I’m thinking.”
“Aye, that we will,” Alec said. He gathered Celia close, the fold of his plaid coming around her shoulders. “As I introduce to them the woman I love.”
“Love?” Celia asked, her heartbeat speeding.
She hadn’t meant to blurt the question, especially not in front of Will. She flushed, but she studied Alec—he could use the word so casually.
“Yes.” Alec’s golden eyes held fire, passion, truth, and a hint of challenge. “I love you, my Celia.”
“Oh.” Celia burned all over, any hesitancy, fear, and trepidation dissolving at the heat in his voice. “I love you, my Highlander. My Alec.”
A huff of laughter accompanied a swirl of plaid as Will took himself away and down the deck, leaving them alone.
The wind from the sea to the north was brisk, sending rain through the Channel and rough water. The boat tossed, the cold bit at them, but as Alec leaned to kiss her, Celia had never felt warmer in her life.
They lingered on the coast of France, Gair again avoiding British ships prowling the waters in their ongoing war with King Louis. Will had a hideaway near Le Havre, and there the men rested and recovered. Most had a broken bone or two, and some were simply too ill to move.
Alec watched Celia come into her own as she bathed wounds, wrapped limbs, and bullied the landlord who ran the house into scrounging up clothes, medicines, clean bedding, decent food, and hearty ale. She did it all in perfect French, ordering large, strong men about with the intensity of a battlefield general. Perhaps having something of her mother in her wasn’t a bad thing.
After two weeks, the Highlanders improved and grew stronger, and talked about what they would do. Some wanted to brave going home, to make sure their families were well. Others planned to settle in France or find their friends who’d gone to the Low Countries for life in exile. Stuart Cameron was one who planned to return to Scotland, though he promised he’d keep his head down and not require Will and Alec to rescue him again.
Letters had gone back and forth between Le Havre and Paris, Mal telling Alec he had everything ready for Alec’s return with his bride and daughter. Celia insisted on writing to her father to ensure him she was well, and Will got the letter smuggled across the Channel.
They set out on a fine summer morning in a chaise Will had procured, one with good springs and soft cushions. Sally rode inside with them, she and Celia cooing over Jenny, who loved every moment of attention. Alec and Will rode facing the two ladies, the brothers traveling in companionable silence. Will looked his old self again, his beard long gone, his red hair trimmed, his eyes as animated as ever.
The journey went in easy stages, Alec not wanting to tire Celia, Sally, and Jenny. He liked the slowness, which gave him time to talk at length with Will and discover everything he’d learned since they’d last seen each other.
The Mackenzies would have to lie low in Paris for a time, Will said, though Lord Wilfort was subtly pulling strings to have the family cleared of treason and slowly brought back to life. Will, for his part, preferred to stay dead—he could travel about and poke into things easier if everyone thought Will Mackenzie had perished on the battlefield.
Alec didn’t mind one way or another—he had Celia and Jenny, a place to live, time to pursue his painting and raise his daughter. One day, he would return to the lands of his ancestors, but for now, he’d while away his time in Paris, not a bad city to spend an exile in.
He also liked the time to lie abed with Celia, learning her body, teaching her to explore his. Sunlight lingered into the night at this time of year, which let him enjoy her in the long dusk, her body a place of light and shadow.
Paris unfolded like a smoky smudge on the horizon after a few days. The outskirts were thickly clustered with houses, the buildings rising higher and becoming more lush as they neared the Tuileries, Palais-Royal, the Louvre, and the squat towers of Notre Dame. Tall houses crowded onto the Pont-au-Change and other bridges, the Seine beneath as smelly as the Thames.
Alec took them to a house in the Saint-Germain district, a confection of stone and painted shutters that rose to a mansard roof. The main door led to a courtyard, beyond which was a large garden shared by houses in the square.
A door in the courtyard sprang open as soon as the carriage pulled into it, and out came Malcolm Mackenzie, the Runt towering over Alec as he pulled him out of the coach and smothered him in a hug.
He shoved Alec aside and yanked Will out next, giving him the same crushing embrace.
“I was sure you were both dead,” Mal declared at the top of his voice. “Without me there to look after ye.”
A young woman with very blond hair and a quiet manner stepped out of the house after Mal, beaming her wide smile on Alec.
“I knew you’d prevail,” she said, rising on tiptoe to kiss Alec’s cheek, then Will’s. “Mal worried every day, but between you and Will, I was sure you’d be right as rain.”
Mary stepped back and took them in, and Alec saw the smudges of worry that had stained her face, despite her glib words. Alec also noted that her gown was cut to hide her thickening belly, and Mary touched her hand to her stomacher. “He kicks something lively,” she said. “A Mackenzie without question. Now, where is she?”
Mary reached Celia before Alec could, the two greeting each other with enthusiasm, as Alec helped his wife from the coach.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when Mal told me Alec had married Lady Celia Fotheringhay,” Mary exclaimed. “I thought you betrothed to that horrid Lord Harrenton. We must talk.”
“Watch yourself,” Mal warned Alec, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. “That’s a bad sign.”
“You love listening to Mary chatter, Runt,” Alec returned. “Don’t pretend you don’t. I imagine the house will be filled with chatter now, and babies crying. We won’t be able to think.”
“There’s always whisky.” Mal clapped both brothers on their shoulders. “I am bloody glad to see you both, I won’t deny it.”
Sally emerged from the coach with Jenny, and Alec took his daughter gladly into his arms. At the same time, a rumble filled the courtyard as Daniel William Mackenzie, Ninth Duke of Kilmorgan, barreled out the door.
“Did anyone bother to tell me they were here?” he bellowed. “It’s more gray hair you’ve given me, Willie, you and Alec both. I can’t spare any more sons, damn the lot of ye. Is this the wife?”
Alec held Jenny securely, she observing the duke without fear as she chewed on one fist with new teeth. Alec put his arm around Celia, and Mary remained steadfastly on her other side.
“This is Celia,” Alec said. “Your daughter.”
The duke, who’d glared so hard a
t Mary when she’d first appeared in his house, sent the same glare to Celia, but his eyes quickly softened.
“Well now.” The duke cleared his throat. “Ye appear as though ye can look after my good-for-nothing son. Got a bit of steel in you, I warrant. You’d have to, t’ run off with him.”
“I hope so,” Celia said. She made a very proper curtsy. “I am happy to meet you, Your Grace.”
She held out her hand. The duke took it, but instead of bowing over it, he tugged Celia close and enclosed her in an embrace. He said nothing, but his eyes were moist when he released her.
“She’s too damned fine for the likes of you, Alec,” he said as he straightened. The duke surreptitiously wiped his face, muttering something about dust.
“Don’t I know it.” Alec grinned at Celia. “That means he likes you.”
“Humph.” The duke set his face in its habitual scowl and stormed back into the house. “There’s a feast waiting for ye. Make Mary happy and come and eat it.”
“Ah.” Alec said as he followed the grumble into the house, Celia at his side, Jenny on his arm. “’Tis good to be home.”
Epilogue
Being part of the Mackenzie family was a considerable change for Celia. Alec’s persona of artist who struggled to find work to feed his child fell away, revealing a man of sought-after talent who lived in one of the most sumptuous houses in Paris.
They quickly settled into a routine, though Celia realized Alec was simply picking up where he’d left off. He spent the morning at the top of the house in his studio, taking advantage of sunshine pouring in through the skylight. Celia made the habit of leaving him alone to paint for an hour or so, and then joining him.
Watching him work in bare feet, breeches, and smock that slid from his wide shoulders was a joy in itself. Once Alec was satisfied with his morning’s work, he’d turn to teaching Celia.
Her portfolio had been among the things Alec had ordered taken to the boat, and they did their best to restore or copy the sketches Celia’s mother had destroyed. Celia now used a camera obscura to draw the Paris skyline, and Alec showed her how to translate what she traced onto canvas.
He resumed his instruction on mixing paint, the latter ending up very messy, their bodies paint-streaked, the two of them breathless with laughter and bright-eyed when they emerged for dinner. It took Celia a while to find all the places the paint had smeared her skin from their wild lovemaking on the chaise.
Alec, Mal, and Mary showed her Paris, its decadence, its beauty, its gardens. Alec continued to work on plans for an extensive garden for Mal’s glorious house, which they’d build on Kilmorgan lands one day.
Celia watched, her heart full, as the brothers put their heads together over their designs, making and scratching out notes, arguing or agreeing. Mal and Alec belonged together, and she and Mary had made a pact that they’d not be separated again, not for long stretches anyway.
On occasion the duke invited in the Scottish families who also now made their homes in Paris, and they’d have a dance. Plaids filled the main salon, emptied of furniture, and the music of bagpipes, drums, and fiddles invaded the house. Men and women caught hands and danced in circles, then twirled each other, kilts flying, laughter gilding the air. Alec taught Celia how to dance in the Scottish fashion, which was robust and heady, pure enjoyment.
She also had the pleasure of watching Alec perform a sword dance one night, his tall body steady as his feet moved in complicated patterns between a pair of crossed swords. He kept his gaze on Celia, his smile widening as the dance wound to a frenzy.
When he finished, he caught her around the waist and spun her away, his kisses as hot as the dance. He loved her that night with equal passion.
Will was a frequent visitor to the palace at Versailles, and on occasion he took Alec and Celia with him. Alec was welcomed by Louis himself—Alec tutored the king’s offspring from time to time. The king’s beautiful mistress, Madame du Pompadour, was charming to Celia, and asked Alec for suggestions on what paintings to purchase for his majesty.
On one visit, Celia at last was introduced to Clara, the rhinoceros.
The king had set up a menagerie at the end of the gardens, and Clara had her own pavilion. The Dutchman who was her caretaker kept a protective eye on her.
Clara of the delicate name was enormous. Her horn had been trimmed down, but she had a great wide head, a huge body and thick hide, and large flat feet. No claws, Celia saw, though she’d seen rhinos depicted with such things before.
Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked over the many gentlemen who’d come to draw her, resting on Celia in her blue and green skirts as though puzzling about them.
The odor in the pavilion was strong, but Celia seated herself to sketch the beast, Alec on a stool beside her making his own drawing. Clara watched them, placid and hardly vicious, closing her eyes in pleasure when her keeper scratched the side of her face.
Their subsequent paintings of Clara hung in the stairwell of the Mackenzies’s home, and became Jenny’s favorites.
Another benefit of living with Mackenzies was the letters. They flew thick and fast between London and Paris, never seeing a post office, as messengers smuggled them past guards and censors.
Celia received letters from her father, who told her he was well, missed her, and that her mother had buried herself in charity work and didn’t say much these days about Celia, marriages, or Uncle Perry and his ruthless machinations to rise in power.
Uncle Perry had recovered from his adventure and gone on travels—he was currently on his way to the American colonies, so said the duke. The king and prime minister had heard about the imprisoned and tortured Scotsmen, and Lord Chesfield was having to explain himself.
The scandal wasn’t made much of, Celia’s father went on, as most Englishmen were not sympathetic to Jacobite Highlanders these days, but the decisions about the regiment were returned firmly to the duke’s hands, the soldiers redeployed to the Continent. Edward had been promoted to Major, and he would soon command a troop in the Netherlands, continuing to fight for Maria Theresa of Austria’s right to keep her throne.
Edward wrote of his mother and Uncle Perry, but in less couched terms than their father.
Uncle Perry scuttled away to the colonies with his tail between his legs. The king and prime minister are not so much concerned with the horrible things he’d done to the men imprisoned, but that he assumed any power at all. He is a nobody and should behave so, was their final word.
Mother too, has been quite subdued. Father put his foot down, it seems, and she has ceased to cross him. She now asks what he thinks anytime she has a scheme, but mostly she keeps to herself. The house has never been more comfortable.
I hope to see you, dear sister, sometime on my travels.
I remain, ever your
Edward
Mrs. Reynolds wrote only one letter, a brief one. In it she said that she and Lady Flora were on a rambling holiday to the west coast of England, and that they would remain away from London until Lady Flora’s nerves were better. Mrs. Reynolds ended the letter by wishing Celia and Alec much happiness.
As summer drew to a close, Celia lay with Alec in their room near the top of the house, late evening sunshine drifting in to touch them.
They’d worked all morning on a portrait of baby Jenny—Celia had made a series of sketches that Alec was now helping her render into a painting. All the sketches were hurried, as the girl could not sit still for more than a minute or so.
Most of the sketch sessions became a game of Jenny running mightily from her father, who would swoop down upon her and lift her to the ceiling. Jenny would laugh and squeal and then wait for her opportunity to run again.
Alone in their chamber now, Alec lazily kissed Celia’s breast, his warm weight at her side. He trailed fingers down Celia’s abdomen to touch the dark curls damp with their loving.
“Jenny’s picture will be beautiful,” Celia said, sighing happily. “We’ll have to hang it in a sunn
y room in the new house at Kilmorgan.”
“If it’s ever built,” Alec said, letting out an exasperated growl. “Mal’s changed his mind on the plans again.”
“There’s time.” Celia touched his face, loving the friction of whiskers beneath her fingertips. “I don’t mind staying in Paris for a while.”
“Aye, I suppose we have more choice of what we eat here. But too much of a good thing wears on a man. I haven’t had porridge and sheep’s entrails in an age.”
Celia grinned. “Mal says you never touch such things. You certainly shoveled in the roast pork with endives in butter at supper tonight.”
“Ah, I must make the best of what I have.”
Celia nipped his shoulder. “You are the worst liar I have ever met.”
“No, I’m not.” Alec rolled onto his stomach, propping himself on his elbows. “I played the befuddled Mr. Finn well enough.”
“True. But not for me. I saw through you the first day I met you.”
“Ha. That’s because ye poured ice-cold water on my foot, woman. A man can’t keep up his disguise when he’s cursing and sopping wet.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” Celia smoothed his hair, which had come loose from its tail. “I’m glad I came to know the real man, Alec Mackenzie, my wild Highlander.”
Alec turned his head and kissed her fingers. “My prim, stuffy duke’s daughter turned out not to be so prim.”
“Or stuffy,” Celia said, pretending offense. “I am quite open-minded.”
“Aye, about drawing a man with his clothes off. I was pleased ye didn’t faint dead away.”
“No indeed. I was quite interested. I’d never seen a man without his shirt before.” Celia let her gaze run across his shoulders to his back and down to his smooth buttocks. “It was most intriguing.”
Alec’s gaze went dark. “And look where it’s led you.”
“To Paris. Where I believe this conversation began.” Celia studied the round of his hips, the strength of his thighs. “I would not mind taking up my pencil and drawing you again. More of you, this time, I mean.”
Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction: Mackenzies (Mackenzies Series Book 9) Page 27
